


Hope

by Onlymostydead



Series: Fictober 2019 [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Almost everyone is dead, Angst, Multi, Suicidal Ideation, referenced canon character death, school shooting mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 04:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20847746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlymostydead/pseuds/Onlymostydead
Summary: Bruce wasn't always the best at it, sure, but he was always there for Tim. When things got bad, when people died, when he fell apart-He was always there to pick him back up.And now... Now what?





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Fictober!

To be honest with himself Tim didn't really know how he ended up here. It was strange, all things considered, the fact that he, a normal, ordinary citizen ended up being Robin and yet... something about it was fitting. It was cheesy to say it was fate, or that he was meant for it, but sometimes... Sometimes that is just how it felt. Even if he didn't like to buy into all of that. It felt guided. Everything had to had a reasonable explanation, but it just rang true: it was like no one else could've done the job of a fill-in Robin.

He had to be there to pull Batman out of his slump.

He had to drive him back from how he had been getting, growing more and more violent and dangerous.

He had to be there to pick him up when Bane broke his back.

He had to be there time and time again to pick him up; whether it was an injury or Jason or anything - he was the one always picking up the pieces.

Middle of the night trips to the manor, staying in the cave overnight, all day, going back and forth to get whatever he needed - anything it took. Anything to pick up the pieces, to make him whole again, to make it right. Because it would be stupid to say that Gotham didn't need Batman, and Batman needed someone to pick him up.

Which made it all the more strange when he needed someone to help him up, when he fell.

When his mom died he had Bruce. And he had Dick, and Steph, and Cass, and Alfred. He still had his dad, too... once he got out of the hospital. And not long after that, he had Dana. His team was right there to back him up. Sure, it wasn't perfect, but they all did their best. He loved them all. They were a family, in a strange, hodge-podge kind of way.

Then there was Stephanie. It didn't change anything that the whole thing was faked; he still thought that he lost his best friend.

And Darla in the school shooting.

And his dad.

Then Bruce.

And when he needed them the most, when he needed Dick and Alfred to be beside him, when he needed Connor and Bart to back him up... They were dead. And Dick chose Damian over him? How did that make sense?

But that's what happened, and that's just how things went. He couldn't blame them now; he couldn't be bitter.

(It still hurt.)

But Bruce wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. Nights spent sobbing about it, pleading, begging, clinging to that one final hope-

Because he had seen Connor die. And Bart. And Cass was gone, and Steph was long gone, even if she wasn't dead, either. He held his Dad in his arms, cradling his lifeless body until the ambulance arrived to take him away. There was no hope for them. No uncertainty. Just lifeless, staring eyes that haunted his dreams, turning them into nightmares, forcing him awake until the amount of hours he spent actually sleeping were few and far in between.

There was no hope.

No hope.

And... There wasn't for Bruce, either. Not to anyone else. In Tim's heart he might've known that he was gone, but he couldn't believe it because there was no one there to pick him back up. Because he was left there, crying and alone. He needed that someone who had always been there for him. When his mom died, when his dad died, and Stephanie, Connor, Bart, Darla, and everyone... He needed Bruce to be alive so that he could be. So that he could have hope.

But he couldn't be Robin.

That title belonged to Damian now. To the new kid to the one who didn't deserve it, who killed people, who still kills people and wanted to do it. Who saw no problem in it. It was... Wrong. Everything about it was wrong, but that's how Dick chose it to be, and who was he to argue? He was in no place to, that was for certain. He wasn't even Robin.

Not even Robin anymore.

For five years that was his title. Almost six. He was almost seventeen years old now, had been doing this for that long, and now...

And now it all fell apart.

He understood how Bruce felt, back when it all began, and he became Robin initially. Because here he was, sitting alone in his room, so angry and spiteful and alone and bitter and frustrated with this whole thing - it was hard not to externalize that. To turn all of that rage onto the streets when he went on patrol. To let it go.

But he had learned from that. If he just repeated Bruce's mistakes, not taking any of the lessons he picked up along the way, what kind of a fool would that make him?

He didn't want to, though.

He wanted to be alone. To isolate. To cut himself off from the people he had left and devote himself to two things: Gotham, and getting Bruce back. 

He didn't want to fix things with Dick, and especially not with Damian. 

He wanted every single person he faced on the streets, every one he saw who he knew had taken the life of another person to feel the pain and the anguish he was in right now, of having lost so many who he loved.

And to be honest with himself... Tim didn't know how he ended up here.

Letting out a deep breath, he tried to relax his shoulders. How long he had been just sitting here, on the floor of his room, he had no idea, but his back had gotten pretty stiff. The hardwood floor underneath him was cold and hard, wearing down on different spots of his legs. His stomach hurt; he had no clue when he last ate. 

Raven wouldn't be proud of his attempt at meditation, or getting in touch with himself, but she wasn't here right now, was she? None of the Titans were. They were all split up, or dead, or-

Deep breaths. Tim tried to calm himself down again, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on the world around him. The room was slightly cold, in just his boxers, socks, and hoodie. His greasy hair was sticking to his forehead and cheeks. The aching feeling of his back, starting low down, felt like it branched upward, slowly leeching into his whole body.

And the heaviness in his chest weighing him down.

Because sitting here, trying to get it all under control, almost felt... It almost felt normal. But it wasn't. Nothing was; it was all turned on its head.

Slowly, joints cracking and popping, with a groan of protest, Tim stood up. He fixed his shorts, tugging them back down where they had ridden up. Squeezed his eyes shut, and opening them. 

Deep breaths.

Hardwood floor, still cold under his socked feet. Bart would always put on slippery socks, when he was in the manor, so that he could slide around all of the rooms and the grand halls, down the banister... It was a disaster. He would always convince him to join him, and that's when something always got broken.

He loved it. He loved him.

And Connor never touched the ground, always just hovering inches above it, because of that one dumb bet they made in middle school for five dollars that he wouldn't step foot in Wayne Manor. 

He never did.

He never did.

Tim swallowed, trying to shake that thought out of his head on his way to the bathroom. He couldn't think about them; it just made it all worse. That wasn't how Raven would teach him. She would say to feel it. To let himself. But...

But he wasn't Raven.

And he had to pick himself up.

Tim stared himself in the mirror, and he had no idea how he got here. When he first became Robin it was with a makeshift, self-done haircut, a round face that looked young, even for eleven, and hope in his eyes. And now...

Now it was different.

Now he had the polished look of a Wayne, perfect hair and teeth, all done up for the cameras. Even if his hair was greasy and messy right now, it was nothing like when he was a little kid, with jagged edges from safety scissors. Time and going on testosterone had gotten rid of the roundness of his face, sleep deprivation wearing dark bags under his eyes.

And...

He had no hope.

But he had to. Because Bruce still had to be alive. He had to be.

And so...

Deep breaths.

His hair was chin length now, cut sharp and and crisp and supposedly in style - but it didn't feel right. Tim looked at himself in the mirror, at how his hair felt on his head, and...

And all he felt were Bart's twitching fingers, braiding it and playing with it during movies. He loved his hair; it was smooth, and heavy, but mostly just the fact that it meant Tim was resting his head in his lap on a Friday night while all the Titans got together to watch something.

All he felt was the way Connor ran his hands through it, tucking his hair behind his ears, holding his head tenderly while they kissed. It was always falling in his face - not as bad as Bart's - but Connor was always laughing, tucking it back, kissing him again, and again...

Tim swallowed, taking another deep breath, letting it out slowly on his way back into the main part of his room. They had to be around here somewhere, they had to be...

Because Raven would tell him to feel it. To take what was genuine about the entire experience; to let his heart feel what it felt.

But he wasn't Raven.

Tim snatched up a knife from his utility belt and stormed back to the bathroom, his socked feet wobbling just that little bit on the hardwood floor, and faced himself in the mirror. With a heaviness in his chest and dry eyes, he began to cut off that perfectly cut, Wayne-styled hair, until it was nothing but a short, choppy mess.

Until even Bart's fingers wouldn't be able to braid it.

Until it wouldn't fall in the way of he and Connor's kisses.

Of course, neither of those were concerns right now since they were-

Deep breaths.

Chopping through another section of hair, leaving the edges frayed and messy.

No hope.

-since they were dead.

And right now, Tim didn't know how he got here, other than the fact that he felt scared and alone and like he needed to do something. Like he first did, when he set out with the name "Tim" for the first time, his hair cut off, prepared to convince Dick to become Robin again.

Except, he didn't. He ended up becoming Robin.

But now he couldn't, because that was given to Damian. He was forced out of that position. 

But he had to do something.

He dropped the knife into the sink.

Deep breaths.

He had to do something.

Because he had already cut off his hair again, and yeah, it was a mess all over the bathroom. Locks and strands of black hair covered the sink and the floor, sticking to his legs and his socked feet. But the was just real. He could run his hand through it and feel it, feel the sharp edges.

When he was eleven, he was careful with it. He tried to make it look even.

Now? Now he didn't care.

It didn't matter. Cutting his hair was just about change, just the first step. Next?

Next he would need a costume. The training was all already his; there was no struggle of a weak, trans, asthmatic kid to catch up to the level of a master in fighting and strategy this time. He was already prepared.

But he wasn't Robin anymore.

He could be Nightwing. He could take that away from Dick, see how he enjoyed having his name, his identity, what he had built up for himself taken by another person whom he may or may not consider worthy of it. He could; it would work.

But it wouldn't be right.

He wasn't that petty. Nightwing wasn't his, and never was. Robin was a passed down title anyway; it wasn't going to be Tim's forever, even though it wasn't time to give it over, and not to Damian, he couldn't be angry that it belonged to someone else.

But he could be a type of Robin...

Stalking back into his room, Tim started searching around for a blank piece of paper. It could be anything - the back of a schematic, a file, a folder, some homework - whatever he could find. Flipping over an already scrawled on piece of notebook paper, he got to work.

All of the things that he could have been. All of the things that he would have been, as an eleven year old kid, if he had choices over his costume. All of the things that he had to have, since he wouldn't have a partner working beside him.

Since he'd be alone.

Suddenly the room felt a lot colder. The chill seemed to seep into Tim's knees from where they touched the ground, his bare legs, shaking his shoulders and making him shudder.

Alone.

He'd worked alone... As Robin. Always having someone to report back to. Backup to call in, if he needed it. Help. Someone to pick him back up when he fell.

But now he needed to pull himself back up, and he needed to bring Bruce up with him.

Because he couldn't be dead.

He couldn't be.

He had to have hope.

Hope.

What did hope look like?

A twinge of pain went through his heart, the first thought through his head being the Superboy symbol. Hope. That's what he had to be.

His colors. Their colors. 

This costume, this version Robin, would be red and black and yellow, the colors of his fallen boyfriends suits. He carried them with him.

They always picked him back up too, after all. Always.

Always.

A tear fell on the paper, ruining a portion of the design. He'd have to draw it again, to fix it later, with color and proportion and everything for Lucius, but...

After one came another. And another and another until he couldn't stop, his body wracked by sobs. Tim didn't want to cry; he didn't want to. He wanted to be strong, to be tough, to be better, to pull himself together for fucks sake-

Because no one else was here to.

Then he was just crying harder. Because he was alone. And he was scared. And he was only sixteen, almost seventeen, trying to figure out his life. He lost his mom, his dad, his stepmom went crazy. He lost all of his best friends. His boyfriends. Gone. Dead or gone, every single one of them.

He was alone.

Tim Drake had no idea how he got here.

It occured to him to quit. To just end it all, and leave everyone else with the pieces. To hell with Gotham, the city was in shambles anyway. Why should he feel obligated to protect it? He didn't in the beginning, after all. The only reason he started all of this was because Batman needed a Robin. Well, Dick was Gotham's Batman, they settled that. And Damian was his Robin.  
He wasn't needed.

He wasn't wanted.  
But he still had a purpose. Yeah, he was alone. No one was here, and he was going to have to go out there by himself, and no one believed him, and everyone thought he was crazy, and all he wanted to do was copy Bruce and isolate and lash out, but-  
But Bruce was alive.

He had to be. It was what made sense. He had reasons, all half-baked, albeit, but reasons to give his family when they asked. He was confident in it, because it had to be true.

It had to be.

Because if he wasn't, well...

If he wasn't alive, then there was no one. Maybe Tim would stay as a vigilante. He couldn't... Now that he knew about what happened on the streets, if he was alive he couldn't stand by and let evil things happen to people. Maybe he would try to fix things with Dick and Damian, forgive them, and move on.

But he couldn't see it happening. 

This was it.   
The last chance.  
Tim knew he was alive. He had hope, but... He only had so much fuel left, so to speak. One last shot at this, one more go. He would search the entire world - the entire universe - a thousand times over. He would scour every lead, talk to every person, no matter how much conniving and plotting that took. He would do anything. Anything.

Whatever it took.  
Because someone had to be here for Gotham when it all fell apart. Dick couldn't do this forever. He knew that. Hell, they both knew that. How long he would be able to keep it up was the question, until he got tired, and...

And then what?

And then Jason tried to take over as Batman again? And then Tim had to do it?   
No, they needed Bruce. He was the only one who could do this... Right now, anyway. Who knew about the future.   
But right now...  
Deep breaths.  
Tim tried to reconnect himself to his body, to where he was, to the crumpled, tear-stained paper in his hands. He was here, against all odds. Alone, but alive. After all of this. Not Robin, but something new. Who knew what he would end up.  
Going forward with hope.  
Because yeah, he had absolutely no clue how he got here. It was a long, painful process that he would rather not think about. Over the course of the past five and a half years he had lost nearly everyone close to him, or alienated everyone left. 

But hey, at least he knew where he was going.

He was going to find Bruce Wayne.  
Or...

Deep breaths.

Or die trying.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at Supertinybats or Supertinywords!
> 
> Requests for these oneshots are open! I don't have 31 yet
> 
> Comments are love <3


End file.
